Mutilation's The Most Sincere Form Of Flattery

Vincent’s lips were soft against my temple as he quietly slid out from between the sheets and left the room. I didn’t open my eyes or ask where he was going, after the time spent watching the focus group I already knew. That night I dreamt that I was blind and walking through an unfamiliar room. In my dream, I knew that something was watching me; something that wanted to hurt me. And so I moved quickly trying to get away from whatever it was but because I was without my sight and didn’t have my bearings in this unfamiliar room I kept knocking into things and tripping in my haste to get away. I could feel the presence hunting me and knew that if I could see, I would find a familiar face over my shoulder. As soon as I thought it faces started cycling through my mind like an out of control roulette wheel. That morning when I awoke with the dream fresh in my head my mind wandered back to my childhood and a different sort of blindness.

It was the second grade when I realized that I couldn’t see. I’ve always been somewhat disruptive and I think my parents likely just assumed my poor performance up until that point was due to my easily distracted nature. In a twist of fate it ended up being that disruptive nature that was responsible for me realizing that the strange blurry world I saw when I opened my eyes every morning was not the same world that the people around me were looking out on. 

“Did you see Mrs. Caruthers's put up that creepy old Santa statue again?” I whispered to the timid blonde in the desk next to mine. Julie Sue shifted her eyes toward the front of the room where Mrs. Neighbors stood facing the chalkboard scrawling out a series of math problems we would be expected to answer upon her completion. “Don’t reckon she can afford a new one.” Julie Sue hissed back in my direction. “He doesn’t have a face!” I protested. The Santa in question was actually a decorative blow mold that traditionally held a place of honor beside the door of Mrs. Caruthers's trailer. A few years prior some of the older kids had accidentally lobbed a baseball directly through his face during a game of catch and taken out most of his features with the exception of one eye and half of his nose, resulting in a truly grotesque Christmas abomination that sat as an eerie glowing sentinel on the nights between Thanksgiving to Christmas. “It’s the principality of the matter!” Julie Sue shot back. Julie Sue knew big words, she was smart. “Well, she should call the principal and his pal and tell them to buy her a new Santa.” I crossed my arms over my chest, defiant in my rightness. The slap against the blackboard caused us both to startle and turn our attention to Mrs. Neighbors at the front of the room who was now staring a hole directly into our very souls, it seemed.

“Frannie, take your things and move to a desk at the back of the room.”

My mouth flew open to protest but the words died in my throat as Mrs. Neighbor’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline just waiting for me to make the mistake of back sassing her. 

“Yes, Mrs. Neighbors.”

The other children quietly snickered as I gathered my things and shuffled toward one of the empty desks at the back of the room, careful not to sit in the desk that Bobby Sierra usually sat in just in case the head lice he was out with had decided to take up residence in the plastic cubby under the table top. Once I had settled myself into a desk that seemed mostly head lice free, I looked back toward Mrs. Neighbors at the front of the room, hardly able to make out the woman’s steely features at this distance. 

“Now that I have your attention, please solve the first question for the class.” she said, shifting her body to the side of the blackboard. When I looked away from her and to the chalkboard, I was not entirely surprised to find that I could only make out vague shapes at odd intervals. After all, this was the precise reason I’d taken a seat at the front of the room. My eyes squinted down as if the act of narrowing my vision would somehow improve it. Vague numbers falling from my mouth as I tried to quietly work out what the problem was so that I could be out of the hot seat of her scrutinizing gaze. When I looked away from the board, Mrs. Neighbors was in front of me, her face having softened. “Frannie, can you see the writing on the board?” she asked me quietly as the other children looked on. 

Most people in this world don’t understand the privilege that they have been born with. But not people like us, Tara. We understand acutely that things like sight and speech are a gift, one to be cherished by people like us who have had to work twice as hard to compensate for that which we lack. The funny thing is, when you are deprived of one sense often the others will work to fill the void left by the deficit sense, for me I was given the ability to hear things that no one else does, I pick up on things. Tiny things, miniscule details that would otherwise be washed away in the ocean of sound around me. Long before I decided to come to PWE I was using this special ability to acquaint myself to the landscape, homework if you will. Of all of the people here you were the one that was the loudest in my ears, not for the octaves in which your strange robotic voice sings out but with the whispers beneath the surface that the others don’t hear. When I strained my ears to listen, I was surprised to hear your request: relief. Relief from the burden of being two sides of only one coin, a heads and tails forever doomed to be at odds with each other, each side vying to be the side visible and not suffocated against the darkness. I know what you must have thought when you saw my name across from yours on the booking. Firstly, probably confusion of who this newcomer was in the first place which made you seek out knowledge. What you found was a joke, wasn’t it? You thought to yourself “another comedy act!” and were sure that you knew how this dance would go before either of us had ever taken a step. But allow me to let you in on a little secret Tara, sometimes you have to look past the things you can see and squint at the blurry sea of shapes and colors until you can make sense of what is really there. Thankfully, I spent a great many years' squinting past the things I could see to try to focus on what was just out of sight. It means that when I see you, I can see past the role that you play in the ring to the woman that lay underneath the guise. You strike a nice picture, not wholly unique – not many in this business are, but it’s formidable. The problem is that you are a lot like little Julie Sue that I knew all those years ago. See, Julie Sue had heard people much more grown up than her using words that sounded very impressive and she thought that if she could mimic those words then she herself would seem much more grown up. The problem was, she was an imitation. She simply took what others had done and tried to use it to her own benefit but ended up using it wrong. Now, I am sure you would argue this point as you likely see yourself as very authentic but for those of us who have been around long enough the song and dance you and Damian put on is nothing more than that. Performance. You’ve cultivated a baseline, if you will, and it’s served you well in this landscape up until this point. But the thing is, I know that all it takes is just a little poke to crumble the façade you’ve built. It’s much like the fake building front of a Hollywood movie set, there's nothing behind but air. You claim to worship in the church of violence like so many in this business purport. But why? What is it about the violence that you worship? What drives you to commit these acts? What does Tara Ayla get out of the violence? Is her affinity for ripping apart her opponents born of nature or nurture? Or does it just sound nice on a robotic sound bite?

If you believe the act that Tara Ayla puts on, she does not aim to compete – she aims to destroy. To maim each opponent to sate her bloodlust. I’m sure to many of her opponents the thought of facing down someone whose singular goal is to rip you apart is a little disconcerting. But me? I know that Tara’s desire for violence, her drive and need to hurt me is nothing more than a disadvantage for me to prey upon. When Vhodka Black and Tara Ayla step into the ring together for the very first time Tara has to unequivocally destroy me whereas I merely have to win. It doesn’t matter to me how that feat is accomplished; I am not driven to destroy this woman that I don’t know. I have no desire to hurt people based on my own internalized victimization because I missed that whole screamo My Dying Chemical Autumn Tuesday phase that Tara seems stuck in. All I need to do is pin her shoulders to the mat for three seconds. Tell me, who do you think really has the advantage here?

My father sucked on his teeth as he looked over the stickers placed beside each of the display frames lined neatly along the wall of the optometrist's office a few days after Mrs. Neighbors had pinned a note to my shirt explaining her concerns. My mind wandered back to that day, laying still in my bed so that they would think I was sleeping as they discussed the issue. 

“She needs them, Buck.” My mother intoned for what seemed like the third time since the conversation had begun. “Hell, Beulah. I know she needs them, that ain’t what’s on the table.” My father replied. “Surely Joe would understand you need to pick up a few extra shifts to cover it.” She said. “There ain’t no more shifts to pick up.” Buck replied. Throughout my childhood conversations like this were a constant reminder of just how close to poverty we really were. 

Back in the optometrist's office my fathers eyes had found my own as he thanked the doctor for seeing us and told him that we would be in touch. Outside he kneeled down, hugging me spontaneously not realizing that he was putting his young daughter in the position to need to console her adult father. “I’m sorry, Cricket.” Buck Bickett said, crushing his face against my snarled hair. I knew that this was hurting him much more than it was hurting me and I wanted to take that pain away. I loved my parents, money or no money. “It’s alright daddy. Them glasses were all ugly, the other kids woulda made fun of me.” I smiled at him trying to ease the sting of a man not able to provide for his child, not mentioning how much clearer my world had become when the doctor placed a sample pair of prescription glasses over my eyes. “Promise we’ll come back just as soon as I can get some more work coming in.” My father said, He meant it at the time, of course, but it seemed like anytime he had a little extra money in his pocket to do it something happened that had to come first like the radiator busting or the alternator on his truck going out. In the end, I never did get those glasses. When the issue of my vision was brought up I learned to lie and tell my parents that it really wasn’t that bad. Not anything to worry about at all, really. It wasn’t until I was wrestling and started to make a little money that I was able to have eye surgery to improve my vision. I never told my father about the surgery, even as an adult I didn’t want him to be reminded about all the things that he couldn’t give me in my life. 

It’s funny how life changes, isn’t it? My parents still live in the same trailer park that we lived in when we didn’t even have two nickels to rub together but they remain there now out of choice and not necessity. Thanks to my husband, Vincent Black, and his attempts to stop the destruction of a very bad man set on hurting us all, my parents actually own the town that I grew up in. True, Vincent has more money than God and Bent Fork, Tennessee probably wasn’t going at a premium but it’s still impressive for a kid like me and a family like mine. Vincent had a much different upbringing than I did, his foster parents were abusive where my home was rich in love which is what really matters most anyway. But despite the differences in the adults in our lives we both knew what it was like to grow up hungry and that precise thing was what brought us together when we started out in this business. Until we weren’t. But that’s another story for another time. 

The decade that I took away from this business has left me hungry. I’ve had success since coming back, I’ve held the championships, been invited to back up people like James Raven, Shawn Warstein even Betsy Granger who I’m sure you’re all very familiar with. I tried in that time away to forget about the business but I see now that it never really forgot about me and that’s precisely why it was so much easier for me to slip into this new age than it has been for some of my counterparts coming up. I’m adaptable, I guess you could say. Adaptability is something that Tara struggles with, not because she can’t think on her toes but because it seems that her brain takes longer to process new information and use it to her benefit. We’ve seen it in the ring with people like La Andalucera who for whatever reason threw Tara Ayla a curve ball in the match at Annihilation but then decided not to capitalize on it. Tara Ayla clearly has a plan every night she steps out in the ring but what happens when Tara comes up against someone that she can’t plan for? Can she adapt? Can she overcome? It seems unfair really, that I have been afforded the time to learn so much about her before I ever darkened a doorway and she’s left scrambling to figure out what woman will walk down that ramp in a few short days. Will she get the court jester? Or the ball of anger? Or will she get the woman who has plans and counterplans that Tara Ayla couldn’t even begin to guess at on her best day? Let me know if you figure it out.

You see, I’ve faced a lot of women like Tara Ayla before. Actually, she and Damian remind me very much of another couple that I once knew. Cold, calculating and unequivocally certain in their path forward. But that couple was always just one step ahead even when the world thought that they were on the ropes and sure to be defeated they merely laughed and switched the tune to a different dance. Tara and Damian Ayla are good, but they’ll never be able to touch the mindfuck of The Stratford's. While I wouldn’t have believed that having the personal experience of The Stratford's would ever be a good thing, now I’m finding that it will actually come in quite handy. I know what I will find in the ring, I’ve seen the song and dance and watched it done by those more talented than Tara and Damian could ever dream. Can Tara say the same about me?

Tara, I’d like you to take a moment and ask yourself a very serious question. Why was this match booked? Do you think they intended to feed you this newcomer? Or are the powers that be hoping that it will be I that eats you. Don’t let them fool you, dear. They know exactly who I am and what I can do. Was it a vote of confidence or was it a death sentence? I’ll give you two guesses and the first doesn’t count. The outcome of this match was predetermined the moment the pen was put to paper, all that’s left now is for you to do the robot dance until the bell chimes and you’re left on your back staring up at a woman you never saw coming until it was too late to realize what was after you. ‘

And then tell your husband that Vhodka Black sends her regards. 

“Ma’am this is a Wendy’s.”

I looked at the pimply faced kid across the counter suddenly coming back to myself and very aware of the impatient line of people at my back all having heard me go into full on Damon Riggs monologue about things they knew nothing about and were not interested in learning unless it came with a free side of fries. But not the new fries, the old fries. Yellow Wendy's back when Dave was alive and it was still good. 

“So it is!” I responded knowing that much like Tara Ayla's hopes of continuing her winning streak anything I ordered off this menu would only be a disappointment.

“Like, what do you want?” The kid stood poised, finger to register touch screen.

“I want to be a baller, shot caller. Twenty inch blades on the impala.” Humor. I do this in uncomfortable situations. 

“Please leave.”

“There’s got to be a better way.” I pleaded but he remained unmoved. “Fine. I guess it’s time I hit the highway and make money the fly way.” I could tell this wasn’t landing mostly because the kid was too young to know Lil Troy but also because I’m wasted on most people. 

Outside my cell phone vibrated on the passenger seat next to me and I knew without looking that it would be Vincent wondering where I had gone. You have to understand something here, I don’t like lying to him. For the most part at this point in our lives after all the shit we’ve been through there isn’t a single thing that isn’t out in the open between us. But this was different. It was for his own good, for all of them. But If he knew about this.. well. 

It seemed like hours had passed with nothing more exciting than the everyday comings and goings of a busy street happening around me until I spotted her. She looked different from the last time I’d seen her, not entirely like herself but also not like she had been. She reminded me of a neglected house plant that the owner has only recently remembered to water. The leaves are beginning to lift as the roots drink in the water soaking into the potting soil but the whole thing still looks a little sad. It’s a subtle shift, blink and you might miss it. Watching her walk against the wind, curly blonde hair bouncing atop her head and her hands shoved into the pockets of her fluffy pink coat made my heart constrict somewhere inside my chest. I wanted to throw the car door open and run to her, throw my arms around her, cry even. But even as I imagined what it would be like I knew that I couldn’t. Not now, probably not ever. We didn't have that kind of relationship. 

My eyes involuntarily closed as I tried to gather myself but by the time I opened them again she was gone and I quietly cursed myself for taking my gaze off her in the first place. I'd have to do better than this if I planned to follow through with what needed to be done. I wasn't suited for it, but I was what we had. In some ways it was not all that unlike the fight with Tara Ayla, I had to follow through and make good on what I knew to be true not because I wanted to but merely because I had to. I could not fail. I would not. A thrill flashed through me as I saw the preposterously sized man commandingly sauntering down the sidewalk where she had been only moments before. He was wearing a New York Nicks jacket and speaking emphatically into a cell phone, no doubt with the same heavy accent I had heard before on the tape. My face cracked in two and the wind stung my cheeks as I stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, following behind the man. Life is funny, isn't it? Sometimes you don't get what you're expecting.